the averageness of rainbows
by perfectpro
Summary: Somewhere along the road, his perfect life became average. And he doesn't know why.


"Cheer up and dry your damp eyes and tell me when it rains  
>And I'll blend up that rainbow above you and shoot it through your veins<br>Cause your heart has a lack of color and we should have known  
>That we'd grow up sooner or later cause we wasted all our free time alone"<p>

- Owl City, _Rainbow Veins_

She's sleeping with her knees pulled up to her chest, snoring slightly with a peaceful (yet still tense, ready for anything and everything) expression on her face. You can't hear people's daily routines of picking up the paper, starting the car up, and going to work going on outside of the house on the quaint little street that seems to be away from the rest of the world yet. It's early in the morning (so early that people haven't even woken up enough to pour themselves a cup of coffee – yourself included) and some of the stars are still mounted high in the sky (and you want to be a little kid again, repeating that little nursery rhyme about the first star you saw that night again and again in your head until it comes true), so high that it seems like even God got into the Christmas spirit this year and decided to put up some lights. You exhale a small amount of breath carefully (ready to lull her back to sleep should she wake from your small action), relaxing only when she doesn't stir from her (seemingly) deep sleep. Sitting up quietly, silently creeping into the kitchen where you are free to close the door and make as much noise as you could possibly want without waking her up. A lone tear falls into the coffee that has no sugar or milk in it, keeping it bitter and imposing. (You like it bitter because that's the way it always ends with her.) You act like the tear didn't come falling down from your cheek (because you've had more than enough practice lately) and you instead try to absorb yourself in something that's on the TV that either you or she forgot to turn off late last night. There's some music video (and an average one at that) with the boy pining for the girl and the girl pining for the boy and both of them ending up together at the end (you hate those types of music videos because they're never the way it ends up in real life) and you click the remote for it to turn off (but the cheesy lyrics that you can find in any average love song keep repeating themselves in your head). It's really just another (average) day in your life where you try to act like everything is perfectly fine and you smile through every second because if you don't, people will ask the questions you really don't want to hear (you've tried avoiding them for forever it seems) (but this is the morning and the early mornings always give you something (almost everything) to wake up for).

You eat your breakfast (black coffee with plain bagel spread with cream cheese) and walk past the bedroom (past the sleeping girl that loves you as she so often proclaims boldly), out onto the lawn where you sit down on the wet grass, only a partly filled and lukewarm coffee cup held within your hands. You look across the street to a few houses down where there is a girl who is stretching in jogging clothes, getting ready for a lengthy run. She jogs down the street to meet you, fidgeting with an iPod strapped to her arm that she's trying to turn on. She smiles at you and stops in front of you. "Hey, Sonny," you breathe out easily (you hope) as she smiles back effortlessly.

"Want to join me for a run, Chad? They feel great on your energy levels. I swear, it's like I'm a whole new person!" she cries out just like she always does. You shake your head slowly at her, making it look like she is just too much for you (really you're just trying to stop yourself from telling her that she _is_ a whole new person (but to be fair, you've changed a lot too) ever since she's seen you get married – what an idiot you were to go ahead and do that).

"I'm not exactly dressed for going on a run, Bullet. I'm just out here enjoying the nature," you tell her as she looks at you and takes in your worn out gray T-shirt and plaid boxers for the first time that morning, just like she does every day. You try not to open your mouth and say her next line with her as she does it herself (which is a relief because you thought that today might have something spontaneous in it – it's nice to know that it doesn't yet). She knows her next line (you've both done the read-through so many times before that it's almost impossible to forget it) and recites it perfectly (and somehow, for some reason, you're slightly disappointed by this thought).

"I guess you aren't dressed up for a run then. You'll join me next time though, right? You should. We'd be running buddies, Chad. How fun would that be? It'd be great, that's what it would be!" Just like every other day, you force a smile and try not tell her that it wouldn't be fun because _nothing_ is fun anymore (that everything is average, plain and simple) but you (somehow) manage to remember what you're supposed to say (like every other day).

"Maybe next time," you whisper but she is already gone, gone too far away to hear that line that didn't go along with the script (at least she's playing her part right). The truth is never included in the script (and what a scripted script it is), but it's always the easiest to (unfortunately) remember. You start to disobey your mind (this is when the worst thoughts come but it's part of your day so you go through with it because that one unscripted line shook your entire day up and you have to do the rest of it completely by the book) and walk down the road in a the opposite way that she went. You walk until you get past the fire hydrant and then you take another step (you feel like being a daredevil today – or at least this is what you calling being a daredevil) and turn around and walk home.

Instead of going by the book, you decide to change something up (yet again – why are you changing your (average) life that flows seamlessly?) and you look up at the stars, thinking about the girl who has gone for a run and you sing that stupid little nursery rhyme to yourself even though you know that just wishing for something won't change it, you have to change it yourself if you want actual change. But while you're thinking about the jogging girl, you come upon a wish you haven't thought about in a while (how stupid you were to think that it disappeared and made your life a little less complicated) and if you wish hard enough on that star hung up so high in the sky, you can practically (not really) fool yourself into thinking that you actually have enough of her heart to break it (but you don't, you only have the heart of your wife who is an average person if there ever was one – but she won over your heart and that should be enough (but it isn't, you note carefully) because society has defined it from that standard dating back from since long ago) (if you did have enough of her heart to break it you already would have – newsflash here: you're married now, buddy). You enter your house (the only thing in your (now average) life that isn't that average (not according to the average man at least)) being a retired actor (yet oh so average all the same now that you've lost all of your shine), having a nice (mediocre, more like) life (but not average money-wise – in that direction you're pretty well set for your future), and wanting to be married to someone else (but you aren't).

You dump the now cold black coffee out of the cup and wash it carefully, setting it back on the counter along with its counter parts (if you'll pardon the pun, please). As you look out the kitchen window, despite the darkness and stars still hanging in the sky, there is a rainbow spread out over the great expansion of dark. It's a perfect rainbow with its nice, pretty to look at colors just waiting to be looked at (or possibly resented) by someone (you're more of the second type yourself). You resent the rainbow because it represents perfectness, and that's what your life is (that, and happiness). Being perfect is completely average in your life; it's nothing special (to you – to others it's completely unobtainable and they're stupid to even reach for it as a goal). You try not to scream at the perfect rainbow because while you will tell others that your life is perfect, and they'll agree, your life will never be truly perfect (it's average – for you). You close the curtains to the window instead of leaving the window because you know that soon the jogging girl will be running back past the window (and she'll want to know why you of all people were watching her). You don't necessarily enjoy being around the jogging girl, but she lends you her glimpses of the perfect (average) rainbows that she sees in her life. You aren't one of those rainbows (and if you are, you don't want to know because it would make it all just that much harder on yourself), so it's kind of fun to get to see bits of pieces of someone else's life that isn't crumbling by the minute. Your life isn't crumbing by the minute, but it sure seems that way. But some days when you wake up it's hard to convince yourself that it isn't.

You shake yourself back to reality after staring at the closed curtains over the kitchen window for a good five minutes. You have to at least get in another two hours of sleep before waking up for the (actual) morning of the life that you lead. That intoxicating rainbow is still there hanging out with the moon and stars (you'd find that you're a bit jealous of it if you let yourself admit to it), but you can watch it no longer. You're on a much tighter schedule than that. The jogging girl is probably running by the window by now (a constant light in the ever changing world), but you try to force yourself to think that you don't care (but you really do care – oh you so do care). You have a better life now. A life that doesn't include forcing yourself to act by the script (but you're still doing that, aren't you?), acting like you love the girl who is playing your leading lady (whoops, you still do that, you know), or trying not to care for the brilliant, bubbly, bodacious brunette whose show filmed right next to yours for over five years until she quit (caught you again – your life isn't actually all that different).

You climb back into your bed with your wife, knowing that somewhere within the next two or three hours she will wake up, take a shower, drop the hair drier after she's out of the shower, all the while trying not to wake you up (her day is scripted too but in a different way than yours) (if only she knew). Then you will (pretend to) wake up and ask her how she slept and after she tells you, you'll nod and accept it (even if it's a lie – she sometimes seems to have nightmares in her sleep (you wouldn't know; you don't care)) and the day will go from there. Just because you messed up your (early) morning routine doesn't mean you have to go and mess up hers as well. You fall asleep knowing that even though you aren't an actor anymore you know the lines better than even the writers do.

You (pretend to) wake up to the sound of a dropped hair drier and ask your wife how she slept. She tells you she slept fine and wants to know how you slept. You nod; telling her that it was just another average night for you and the day goes on from there. You leave for work, stopping at a café a few blocks from your house to get coffee (no sugar, no milk) and a bagel (plain with cream cheese on it) and you nod at the jogging girl, who is seated in a window seat booth at the café with a (delicious looking) pastry balanced in her hands which are trying to also hold a large coffee (two sugars, three creams), a laptop, and an iPod blasting Owl City. She waves to you as you leave the café, confused as to why you didn't stop and say hello to her like you normally do (now you're messing up on your (actual) morning routine and you realize you need to get it together) so you walk back in and say hello to her.

"Hey, Chad. What do you think of this script?" she asks (oh no, something new to add to your lines), showing you a large binder with thick printing paper that has the words in black and white on it that you hadn't noticed before. You take the script and flip through it a few times before deciding that it's a romantic comedy and the boy and girl will end up together just like they always do in the movie (and never in real life). You dub it acceptable and go to leave the café (you've messed up your routine far too much to get back on track but it's a nice thought all the same) when she waves you back inside to read the ending. You read the ending and realize that the boy and girl don't end up together in the end you deem it better (but only because someone in Hollywood got it right for once).

"See you later then, Sonny," you say and head out to your office (where you will conduct business, run the company, and relive the scene where your dreams are crushed once more – but it's average for you so you're plenty used it by now) and plan on keeping your day according to the script (but still slightly average all the same – because that's all it's meant to be and at least you've (finally) come to your senses and realized this by now).

If you really wanted to, you could divorce your wife right now (call a divorce lawyer, set up the court case) and marry the girl of your dreams (but she dreams of better than you, you're sure). You would do all of that and more, but the jogging girl doesn't want you and neither does your wife, and you don't feel like being single for a couple more years while you wait and look around for the right person. So as you walk away from the café, you look back to find the jogging girl unconcerned by the fact that you never said goodbye when you left her. She doesn't care. If she doesn't care that you didn't tell her you were leaving her, then she didn't deserve to know.

You love that jogging girl. You love your wife. The love of your life remains undecided though. No matter what you choose, no matter who you pick, there will be a winner and a loser, and you don't like to lose. So you'll continue your life without bursts of colors. You'll keep talking to both the jogging girl and your wife. For now, though, you'll live your average life, and sooner or later you'll make a decision that might work out (all bets are off, you know).

With that aside, your fists clench when you see that she isn't changed by your presence (or lack thereof, now). You feel emptier, heavier without hearing her light and exuberant voice. You're really upset that she doesn't feel the same about you as you feel about her anymore. She's your dream girl. Even after all these years, she's still your dream girl. It's quite the cliché. You really do love her, even after years of denying doing so. At one point in time, though, she forgot that she loved you. That just might have been the moment that you realized you loved her. It was entirely too late for the both of you. There's nothing you can do about any of it now. You're married, in love with two women. The one who showed you your heart and the one who stole it.


End file.
